Megan Ruesink

When we were in the hospital, shortly after learning that our daughter would likely never come home, I remember having a conversation. My husband and I stood in the muted colors of the Ronald McDonald House asking each other:

It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery… – Galatians 5:1

Yesterday was Valentine’s Day, and I can almost guarantee that most of us fall into three groups: 1) you don’t really care (just another holiday made up by candy and greeting card companies). 2) you really care (love to celebrate or despise celebrating both fit in this group). Or 3) you actually, completely forgot. Whatever this day holds for you, know you’re not alone. It’s a spectrum of emotion out there, and we’re all on it.

I bet there’s one thing we all have in common, that unites us as a species this very moment. It goes beyond culture and belief. It’s something we give little thought to and yet can’t avoid: bugs. Boxelder bugs, to be exact.

I remember when I first discovered Bob Ross. I would sit on the edge of my parent’s bed and watch, dumbfounded, as little swipes of his brush turned into forests, swirls became white-capped waves. Mistakes became “little birds.” To me, he was fast. He made something tangible and beautiful in a time frame I could never replicate. This fuzzy-headed magician amazed me, inspired me, kindled my love for all things crafty.

As I was pouring myself a cup of iced afternoon coffee, my five-year-old daughter approached me with a smirk and said, “Wouldn’t it be funny if a pig sang a song and all he did was oink?” She’d painted a silly picture, and I couldn’t help but hear a pig oinking to the tune of Yankee Doodle Went to Town . Then, without any effort, my mind showed me a cow mooing dramatically to the tune of Whitney Houston’s I will always love you. Suddenly, the possibilities for children’s books and YouTube videos were running through my mind. I was mentally writing them when I realized: I was inspired, however ridiculously, by the imaginations of my five-year-old.

I have a distinct memory of being in church one Mother’s Day, and the speaker inviting every woman to take a flower as she left the auditorium. A “happy-mother’s-day-flower.” Honestly, the notion confused me. Wasn’t today just about the mothers? Weren’t we supposed to make them feel special, let them stand out? I was a young woman, unmarried and nowhere near motherhood. Looking around the room, I was certain many of the women holding onto those single stems were not mothers either. But as encouraged, I took a flower and feeling my cheeks warm a little, left that day without much thought.